Two Steps Back
by Against.The.Current
Summary: Melanie is not a time traveller, per se. Time travellers go to the FUTURE and the DISTANT past, rather than just a few hours back. Armed with her mutation and infinite stubbornness, Melanie (the mutant equivalent of Switzerland) fights to stay ahead of SHIELD and others who would attempt to drag her into their conflicts. Follows the MCU mostly, takes liberties with X-Men.
1. The Ceryneian Hind

The wonderful, fabulous and ever-patient **romantiscue** beta-ed this chapter. Any mistakes remaining are my own because I'm unable to leave a chapter alone right up to the posting date.

* * *

Chapter One - The Ceryneian Hind

There was a stranger in her home.

Melanie's fingers curled reflexively around her keys while she eyed the intruder warily. He was standing in the centre of the room and turned from his perusal of her bookcase to look at her head-on.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Holt." The man almost smiled. "Won't you come in?"

Melanie lingered in the living room doorway, fervently wishing that she hadn't already closed her front door. "Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?"

The man's expression continued to perch on the cusp between amused and nonchalant. "Who I am is not important, what I represent is. My agency would like to ask you a few questions."

The blonde resisted the urge to scream for help, run, or even just pinch the bridge of her nose. "Fine, whatever. I'm going to change my shoes." Then she stalked off to her bedroom, closely followed by the man in the dark suit. If he was surprised at her easy acceptance of the situation, he did not show it.

Turning her back on him was prideful and probably stupid, but if he wanted to shoot her he would have already done so with that gun-shaped bulge in his jacket. Even his suit's ill-fitted tailoring did nothing to hide a shoulder holster from people who knew what to look for.

In the next room, Melanie sat on her bed while she unzipped her low heeled boots and slipped on a pair of running shoes. She was already wearing comfortable leggings (flexible, even if the material offered little protection) and the rest of her attire fell easily under the category 'sports casual'.

She crossed her legs and stared up at the intruder. "I take it this is more than a house call, yes? You would have asked me your questions outright if you wanted simple answers." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm going to get carted off to some government facility away from civilian eyes and ears, aren't I?"

"As dramatic as you make it sound... Yes, I do need you to come with me now." He held the door open for her, an incredibly mocking gesture to employ in someone else's home. "I assure you however, you will come to no harm in my custody." He glanced pointedly at her hands, knuckle-white and shaking slightly even as they tightly gripped her knees.

Melanie was sitting with her back to the window, a very stupid position now she thought about it. "Mister..." He gave no response. _Creeper then_. "Mr. Man in Black, what exactly do you know about me?"

At last, there was a flicker of uncertainty, but still he did not reach for his gun. _Pride_, she could use that. "Enough, Ms. Holt."

"Hmm." Melanie hummed, trying not to let her gleeful realisation show in her expression."I don't think you do." _If you had been smart you would have shot me as soon as I stepped through that door._

Writers have given much flair to the idea of time travel, turned it into poetry and verse with a million different nuances, all entrenched in wonder and possibility. They have made it appear nothing short of awe-inspiring and unattainable.

For Melanie it is like skipping a step while descending a staircase, a momentary jolt before she is righted again. She Jumps now, throwing herself as far back in time as she presently can (three hours, nine minutes and seventeen seconds) and finds herself sitting on her bed, still clutching her knees in a death-grip, with her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

* * *

Her heart continued to beat like a rabbit's for a good long while after she Jumped.

True, her escape plan hadn't been the best, she hadn't counted on anyone being in her apartment so soon before she was due home from work. Unfortunately, after she had gathered herself, Melanie heard the sounds of someone pacing the living room floorboards and rummaging through her things. Given she hadn't seen anything out of place earlier, Creeper must have put things back where he found them.

_At least, _she thought,_ he wasn't snooping though _here_ when I decided to Jump._ A small consolation for the violation she felt at having her space invaded.

Melanie tried not to let frustration get to her but she _should_ have had a couple of hours to spare. After all, Melanie got home from work the same time every Tuesday and any self respecting government agency should know better than to waste their human resources or overtime pay on _this_ lil' old Melanie Holt when there was another perfectly good Melanie Holt still working away at the clinic like she did every Tuesday afternoon.

Unfortunately, it seemed that _this_ self-respecting government agency was prudent enough to station the agent she had seen earlier (well, later) at a time traveller's home hours before she was supposed to show. You know, in case she took offence to the agent waiting for her and quickly back-pedalled through the sands of time.

_Except they don't know I can Jump. _Melanie reminded herself, _if they did that man wouldn't have tried to psyche me out before he took me in. They must think my mutation is something else. I have to use that to my advantage._

Melanie had just enough time to open the window wide and retrieve her get-out-fast bag from the bottom of her closet before she heard a tell-tale creak of a floorboard outside her door.

_Does this guy have super-hearing!?_

The woman flung her bag over her shoulders and lunged for the window just before the door flew open.

"Stop! I mean you no-"

She didn't let him get any further, hoping that the same man who didn't shoot her in the future wouldn't shoot her in the not-so-distant past. Melanie took advantage of the already open window, glad that she had left her escape route clear before she grabbed the supplies, and all but threw herself down the fire escape of her apartment building.

Above her, the agent cursed softly but still didn't take the shot. There was too much metal to ricochet a bullet off of and Melanie might break her neck if she fell from here. "Target is on the move-" Creeper spoke into an earpiece before Melanie jumped the last story, rolling as she hit the asphalt, protecting her head and neck with her arms even as her backpack cushioned her spine before she rolled to her feet.

She didn't have a car which would be a bad idea anyway, given the traffic and how easy it would be for them to set up road blocks. A bike would probably be best but hers was at the shop. Roller skates, which were so fun and gave her a great cardio workout were unfortunately not the best mode of escape from government goons. Even if they were, Melanie had left hers upstairs, along with the rest of her life which she would now have to abandon.

The subway would be her best bet, she thought, as she tightened the straps on her emergency bag and secured the buckle around her front so it wouldn't slip. She was running full pelt now, ducking through the 2pm crowd with no solid destination but a thousand routes in mind to get there. Jostling people as she did her best to weave through them, tempting fate with Manhattan traffic (bicycle messengers are _public menaces_) and even leaping over roadwork barriers were all methods employed to gain a little extra speed, a little more distance.

Swerve, turn, jump, "sorry!", take that street, those stairs, run like your life depends on it because it really, really _does_- Melanie's conscious thoughts had narrowed, simplified to simple bodily commands and the running mantra of _where can I go, where is it safe, how far will I have to run before they stop following, how long will I have to hide before they stop looking?_

When Melanie had gained enough distance to marginally slow her break-neck sprint, she had enough ideas in mind to at least give her some time to make a better plan. Going to the nearest subway station was stupid but one further away might not be so dangerous, provided they didn't have agents waiting at every station. _Right?_

With a goal in mind, Melanie ducked into a sparsely crowded mall and changed her clothes in the public restroom, pulling up the hood on a grey sweatshirt and slipping on large sunglasses which easily covered half her face.

There were no dark suits when she emerged a minute later, but that didn't stop Melanie from fervently wishing that she could disappear into the timestream again. That was impossible for the next two hours and forty-nine minutes, until her double vanished from the clinic. Melanie could feel the sands of time slipping with deliberate slowness through her fingers and not for the first time she cursed how many rules her mutation enforced.

If they took her double, Melanie wouldn't even know it until their consciousnesses merged and they chose which physical form would remain.

Melanie took the stairs down to the sub-basement, the first level of underground parking that lead out onto the street. It seemed prudent not to go out the same ways she'd come in. Unfortunately, Melanie had forgotten that underground car parks were the worst places to go when you're being followed, as every thriller and horror movie so colourfully showcased. The screech of tires came too late for her to backtrack for the route she came down so Melanie instead ran for the winding pedestrian staircase leading to the car park's upper levels.

Two black sedans followed her at an almost leisurely pace up the languidly circling paths to the fourth level. A third car waited with it's engine running at the basement exit to cut her off there.

It was actually disconcerting that these people _weren't_ shooting at her. Sure, some abilities acted up under stress, injury or sedation, but that had never stopped any abduction Melanie had ever heard about before. She had been prepared for blitz attacks, for utter disregard of potential civilian casualties and extreme prejudice against people like her. They were cornering her, true, but they were also doing their best to catch her out of the public eye and had yet to fire a single shot or even threaten her with violence. Melanie didn't know whether to be grateful or just incredibly suspicious.

By the time Melanie got to the fourth floor her lungs were aching in her chest. It wasn't quite a burn yet, she was incredibly fit, but she was also terrified and that was affecting her breathing pattern more than she'd like. Melanie ran to the platform as the Sedans pulled up from the opposite side and idled a surprisingly reasonable distance away. Not enough to suffocate her, but leaving little room to manoeuvre towards the elevator, or down the winding road she'd been followed up. As it was a Tuesday afternoon, there weren't any other vehicles this far up, there hadn't been since two levels ago. She had no doubt that it was within these people's power to manipulate the cameras.

When it became obvious that Melanie wasn't going any further, the four agents stepped out of their shiny cars and approached. Melanie was bent over her knees, pretending to be more winded when she actually was, when she spotted the distinctive shape of a tranquilliser gun.

"Ju-just give me a minute." Melanie wasn't sure if the stutter was fear or just an extension of her act but the agents -three men and a woman- seemed to buy it. Or they were just assured of their victory. Naturally, one of them was her mysterious Creeper who had invaded her home earlier, but all the others were pretty nondescript as well. All medium build with dark hair and no discerning features. Perfect agent material, Melanie supposed. "I'll come quietly." She lied.

"It would be ill-advised to try running again, Ms. Holt." Creeper spoke, his expression a mix of mild chastisement and unflappable serenity. No government goon should look so approachable, it was unnatural.

"Where on Earth do I have to run?" Melanie gestured to the open sky visible through the monolithic support pillars. "Honestly." She pulled off her sunglasses, tempted to throw them at that fake-comforting smile for all the good that would do, but instead stowed them in one of the mesh pockets at the side of her bag. Melanie pushed the hood off her head and smoothed the inevitable mess of ash blonde snarls, a style which had been born sometime after her mad dash from her Manhattan apartment. "Why are you even chasing me?"

The answer was patently obvious (_he told the truth but not the whole truth never trust people like this run run run_), but Melanie did so love to stall. Two hours and forty-five minutes until she could Jump again.

"Ms. Holt," Creeper repeated with utmost patience, "I would be more than happy to answer all of your questions as soon as you step away from the barrier."

Melanie had indeed been backing towards the concrete barrier. The low wall was over three and a half feet tall so the blonde topped it by two feet or so and (if she turned) would be able to see right the way down to ground level. The agents on the other hand were further away so even the tallest of them would see only sky.

If they shot her now she might not just slump against the barrier, but topple over it head first.

"Tell me first," she insisted. "Why were you at my home? What do you want with me?" Melanie couldn't even trick herself into believing that those were legitimate questions as she gripped the concrete ledge that she had slowly but surely been backing into.

"Ms. Holt- Melanie," Creeper amended, "please step away from the wall. You are not under arrest-"

"So I'm free to go?" Melanie snorted. "I doubt that somehow."

"-but we ask you to come with us in the interim."

Melanie sighed, turning so that she was only half facing Agent Creeper. It put her on edge, it made her insides squirm, but she needed to see what she was doing. "This place is special for me. It was one of my favourite spots when I was home from college. It doesn't look like much but it has a great view..."

"Melanie, please come away from there." Creeper had raised his hands in a placating gesture but she could feel vibrations through her feet that signalled that one of the other agents was trying to approach from her blind spot.

She turned in his direction sharply and the tall man froze across from her; it would take no time at all to bridge that gap, especially with his arm span. Melanie lashed out with a roundhouse kick as the man made his lunge. It wasn't a heavy blow, but it kept him back just long enough for Melanie to check her positioning and vault over the barrier.

"Shit!" The tall agent cried out unprofessionally, reaching for her, and Melanie felt the ghost of his hand brush her neck before she landed on the jutting concrete protrusion a little below the agent's feet. It was about as thick as a girder and only as long as Melanie's arm from shoulder to fingertips, but running along it while avoiding a reaching hand was comparatively easy. Gaining enough momentum using that short runway to jump almost three metres and land safely on the opposite building was much harder.

It had been years since Melanie had made this jump. She was nineteen the first time, hanging out with a group of adrenaline junkie free-runners who were so different from her usual, (slightly) more safety-conscious parkour crowd.

Melanie had broken both of her legs and a few ribs when she slipped from her landing point onto a dumpster in the alley below. That time, she had been able to Jump and thus never suffered through the long term effects. Today, Melanie couldn't Jump, only jump, and hope that her body remembered how to make the leap.

The free-runners had discovered years ago that the third floor of the car park was a bad place to leap from, the same distance was needed to reach the adjacent building, but the roof was too high up from there. When taking a third-floor leap you needed to scramble up the wall- shredding your fingers if you even managed to find purchase from the crumbling brick. From the fourth floor the wall-to-roof ratio wasn't _too_ bad, but the roof shingles were deadly when slick- as a nineteen year old Melanie had discovered, when she had taken her first leap from there seven years previously.

She was out of practice and had been distracted by the near-grab earlier, she almost didn't make it.

_NoIcan'tIwon'tnot**yet**-!_

The tiles held under her hands but the edges cut into her palms. She had her old parkour gloves stowed in her emergency bag too, she cursed herself for forgetting them until now. Melanie heaved herself up onto the rooftop, reminding herself that it wasn't any different from a regular pull-up and never mind the deadly or debilitating drop below.

_Definitely not thinking about how much it hurt the first time._

She swung a leg up and used that as leverage to get the rest of her body up before someone took a pot-shot at her. Already Melanie could hear her pursuers on their comms, Italian leather shoes hitting the concrete, car doors slamming. Two, three... four? Melanie wasn't sure if they were all accounted for, but she needed to move regardless.

It wasn't really possible to run on a slanted roof, but Melanie made quick work of it anyway, jumping the short distance to another apartment block of the same height. Then she climbed three floors of a low-rise office building, using the outside windowsills and the ugly Art Deco detailing, a feature which made finding finger purchases so much easier. All the while she reminded herself not to look down, no, _don't even think about it. _

The only person who looked up from their desk to see her scaling the outside of the building blinked sluggishly, looking from her to his computer and then back again. By the time he finished rubbing his eyes Melanie was already gone.

Finally, on the blessed flat roof with no access doors, Melanie allowed herself a small breather.

She cleaned the scrapes on her hands with her bottled water and rationed her parched throat two swallows. Protection next- driving gloves she'd cut the fingers cut off of years ago, a fetching shade of purple with stitching strong enough to make it this far without fraying too badly. The leather was well-worn and still dipped and stretched to every crease of her hands, even after she slapped band aids over the worst effected areas of her skin. Melanie stowed her water, strapped the velcro around her wrists and flexed her hands experimentally.

Then she kept going.

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to slip back into the parkour mentality and she made quick work over the rooftops in a route that she had mapped out years ago and which had remained largely unchanged. 'Getting from Point A to Point B in the least amount of time and effort' had been a lifestyle for her when she was younger, not just a sport of hobby. No, the Flight mentality was more than just a pastime; she had lived and breathed this for years, finding new groups wherever she went, whether she was home or at college, in order to keep her instincts sharp. So that she would always be prepared. Melanie had let herself get too complacent and she chastised herself as she dropped to a fire escape and made her way to ground level. The problem with roof hopping was that you had to travel in a relatively straight line and that was problematic for someone who wanted to vanish as well as gaining distance on her pursuers.

Perhaps, if Melanie had thought to pack a flashlight, she could have taken one of the sewer accesses. It would have been disgusting and Melanie would have undoubtedly bumbled about down there, but if she could slip underground without anyone spotting her she would have had a means of travel in which she couldn't be tracked. No flashlight though so no, Melanie was not going to be taking that route. Too dangerous and slow-going without illumination.

_Not to mention the rats. If I can avoid rats today that would be super._

With deliberate nonchalance, Melanie crossed the street to a nice café which did delicious filled croissants (she was really going to miss this place). She kept her head down as she wove through the tables to the ladies bathroom then left through the small window; only after Melanie put all her weight into it did it open with stiff reluctance.

Another fire escape, another rooftop and a clear run of closely clustered buildings of similar height, all the way along to the nearest subway station if she decided to take that route after all. Melanie ran the block and leapt the gap to the next, rolling with the momentum because she really, really loved flat roofs. Here there was a small roof access door, the cubicle structure jutting out the otherwise bare expanse. Well, almost bare. Melanie brushed a few cigarette butts from her shoulders in distaste. In the shadow of the roof access door, Melanie crouched and scanned the sky, the streets and other rooftops for pursuers.

There were no helicopters flying overhead, which was always a good sign, no clusters of black cars or suits and no one roof-side except herself. Assured of privacy for at least a little while, Melanie pulled out the two light-weight cellphones from under her sweatshirt. They jangled together on their cord, identical in model and the amount of wear they had received from being hung together around her neck for so long. They were marked with the numbers '1' and '2' in permanent marker and Melanie flipped open '2' which was the phone that she only used to call herself when she was Jumping.

"Pick up..." Melanie begged, crouched on a rooftop in down town Manhattan as the wind buffeted her clothes and the phone marked '1' chimed and vibrated against her chest. After three eternity-long rings someone picked up, but it wasn't her past self.

"_Hello, Ms. Holt. Ms. Holt cannot come to the phone right now, would you like me to take a message?" _

It wasn't Creeper this time, no, he was probably still on the tail of this Melanie, not her unsuspecting past counterpart whom had expected no more surprises today than a sudden downpour. This voice belonged to a woman with an indiscernible accent. It was crystal clear American, but for the life of her Melanie couldn't tell which state. Either this woman had blurred her accent naturally by moving about a lot or it was another agent thing.

Melanie hung up without responding, going so far as to turn the phone off, though that was probably a useless effort. Her breath was coming faster now and she bit her lip and buried her face in her knees to try and control herself before she hyperventilated.

"Oh god, oh god... no, it's okay, it's going to be okay. Just two hours and thirty-nine minutes. Two hours and thirty-nine minutes and then it'll be fine." If she could last that long, stay out of their grasp for that long, Melanie could Jump back an hour or two and get out of the city while the governmental goons were still chasing her double- her present self. _Why_ did Creeper have to catch her leaving her apartment?

She fumbled for the other phone, speed dialling one of the five contacts she had ever bothered to put in her address book (and one of them was the Thai place 'round the corner from her apartment, how depressing was that?).

"_Hello?" _

"Charles!" Melanie had never been so happy to hear the voice she'd been expecting on a phone. "I'm being chased- there was a suit waiting for me at my apartment and there are more tailing me. They have my past counterpart and I can't Jump for another two hours and thirty-eight minutes. Please, _please_ tell me that Kurt is up for teleporting me out of here!"

"_Melanie, slow down. Where are you exactly?" _

"Manhattan, rooftop of-" Melanie winced, slapping her neck and feeling something harder than a bug on her skin. She shrieked, wrenching the dart out and throwing it as far away as she could. Already her motions were jerkier than they should be and she was shaking. That last symptom probably had very little to do with the drug coursing through her system.

"_Melanie! What happened- where are you? Give me your location!"_

"Someone tranq'ed me." Melanie changed angle, still maintaining the roof access for cover, slapping her cheeks and blinking heavily. "I- you can't get here in time." The realisation was not an easy one to come to terms with. "Don't come. Stay away."

"_Melanie-"_

"Stay _away_, Charles. Goodbye." She flipped the phone closed, turning it off with more pressure on the button than strictly necessary, and shoved both cells down her shirt. Her fingers were fumbling just from those simple motions and she knew she had to keep moving, get to ground level. If she collapsed around people it would cause a scene and a scene sounded _really_ good right about now.

The shooter had hit her from behind- seven or eight o'clock. She had covered those angles but there were rooftops all around. It wouldn't be hard to come at her from another direction. No sign of the shooter but her observational skills had already failed her today.

Melanie sprinted for the next rooftop and this time her leap fell a little short of 'comfortable distance from the ledge', her roll on the wrong side of sluggish. She jarred her shoulder somehow but barely noticed it as her body was slowly but surely going numb. If there was more than one sniper she was screwed twelve ways to Sunday.

The blonde skid to a halt at the far edge and was about to step off onto the highest platform of the fire escape when her vision blurred and the world teetered on it's axis. Suddenly gravity was tugging her forwards and she couldn't shake it off. What had they hit her with- elephant tranquillisers?

Someone grabbed her hood, yanking her backwards none too gently, until Melanie thought her centre of gravity might flop over the other way entirely. Fear sent her the adrenaline she needed to make herself move, so that after she righted herself her body lashed out practically of its own accord.

The man grunted in pain as she drove her elbow backwards into his nose. Her bad shoulder twinged despite the encroaching numbness but his nose bled regardless; she probably hadn't broken the cartilage but it was a start. She caught a glimpse of him for the first time: Short hair, weathered features set in a youngish (bleeding) face, tanned, a bow and quiver (of all things) slung over his shoulder with a familiar model of tranq' gun strapped to his thigh.

He defended against the next blow, blocking with his forearms as Melanie tried to go for his ear- one solid hit there would have been enough to set him off balance. Strategy thwarted, Melanie went for the solar plexus, feinting with a kick to his knee first. He caught her foot, but with one hand occupied she managed to get her blow in. It wasn't centred, her hands were shaking and her hits were weakening, Melanie went for the eyes next because she wouldn't need much strength to damage them; the archer was forced to let her leg go in order to block.

The next thing Melanie knew, her wrists were being twisted to unnatural angles in his grip and Melanie was forced to her knees to relieve the burn of his hold. He was hyper-extending her body's joints and tendons, an effective strategy for disabling even a stronger opponent, because so long as a hold is maintained it's very hard for someone to break away. To struggle is to work against your own body and pain threshold; Alternatively, moving with the motions of your attacker would leave you pinned and relatively unharmed.

Naturally Melanie struggled, but the archer only sighed and applied more pressure, bending her backwards in a position which would have been awkward had she been less limber. Her knees bent under her, Melanie was stretched out, her arms pinned overhead. "Seriously, chill," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you, I thought you'd drop with the tanq' while you were in a safe position. What was your plan, falling off a roof?"

Melanie was torn between a snarl, a sob, and just giving into the persuasive undertow which was making her vision go dark at the corners. She discovered option number four as she flipped up her feet, screaming as she put weight on her shoulders (jarring her bad one again and making her arms twist alarmingly) and kicking her assailant under the jaw with both feet and all her remaining strength.

She rolled onto her stomach, trying to push herself up with trembling, newly-freed, arms while her assailant rubbed his jaw ruefully. "Huh, I really should know by now: don't piss women off. It never ends well for me." Melanie glared at him banefully but by now he was a dark blur with tanned blobs for his head and arms. The blur crouched down to her level and held up blob arms placatingly. "I know you're scared but we're not going to hurt you-"

Melanie blocked out what he was saying as she flexed her fingers on the concrete and sluggishly considered her options. She couldn't fight any more and her legs wouldn't work to run...

The ledge wasn't far. All she would need was one more burst of speed and adrenaline and she could roll herself off the building; without the ability to land properly or shield her body, the fall would most likely kill her.

But then Melanie would wake up in the body of her younger self, the two sets of memories assimilating to make a single consciousness a couple of hours ahead of schedule. Her other self was captured as well and all Melanie knew of her fate was that she wasn't dead. Suicide would be an empty escape if Melanie woke up still in custody.

Somehow, she doubted the younger Melanie would have the option of escape-by-morgue and even though the thought of killing herself was a horrible, irreversible, option... what was the alternative?

She had seen what government agencies did to mutants like her, particularly ones with powers they didn't understand. It was simple psychology that human beings are capable of terrible things, even more so when their victims are dehumanised, when the dissection of a few might better the well-being of many- those they actually gave a damn about because they weren't _freaks_.

Melanie didn't want to die, but if she had the choice she would rather go on her own terms, not under a scalpel or stuck behind glass for the rest of her short, joyless, lifespan while people questioned the legitimacy of her existence.

With no strength in her limbs, Melanie didn't even remember when her arms gave way beneath her. Even if she could muster the willpower to roll off the edge, her younger self would still be trapped and this Melanie would merely join her in their shared misery sooner.

The sniper's voice was very soothing. Melanie really wanted to believe that she wouldn't wake up in a lab or cell, but it was an impossible thought and this man was cruel to lie to her like this. "It's okay," he said, "I promise we're not going to hurt you- scout's honour, well, I never was a scout..."

Tears rolled down her cheeks as Melanie's eyes finally closed.

* * *

A.N:

I am so sorry for ending the chapter with protagonist unconsciousness. Not so much for the cliffhanger but just the fade to black thing. I hate it when authors overuse fainting or similar plot devices as a means to end a scene or chapter. Sorry? It couldn't really be avoided.

I will be using Greek Mythological References for all of this story's chapter titles. A homage to Melanie's Olympian spirit, and because she reminds me of the Greek heroes and heroines I read about voraciously as a child. Parallels will become more apparent with each chapter.

IN THIS CHAPTER: _The Ceryneian Hind_ was one of the twelve trials or Hercules, specifically it was a doe he was charged to capture without harming. It was said to posses golden antlers (Melanie is blonde, so that's vaguely a parallel) and could reputedly outrun an arrow in flight- a bit of a poke at Hawkeye.

Reviews are very much appreciated! I welcome any questions (though I won't answer any concerning the plot) and would love to hear about your thoughts, particularly concerning characterisation, narrative and general flow. If there are any glaring mistakes (again, those are mine, not romantiscue's) then feel free to point them out.


	2. Acheron

The talented, hard working and long suffering **romantiscue** beta-ed this chapter! I apologise to her much larger fanbase for taking up her valuable time with my mediocre scribblings (god, I hate myself, I really want her to update).

* * *

Chapter Two - Acheron

_The sensation of distant duality was familiar. Two bodies, two minds and one soul between them, merely stretched between two vessels._

_They were Melanie and they drifted on the sea of unconsciousness, blindly reaching for the other as their minds spiralled into a single entity. _

_It was like breathing, this careful selection, they were so well versed in it. Although usually they did not have to undergo the process while unconscious, they had done this often enough to function on cognitive auto-pilot._

_Whatever they had been drugged with still allowed for dreams, or whatever you would call this Limbo._

_One body had to vanish, that was the rule. They reviewed their collective memories and Melanie decided that the least damaged body would be the most suitable to hold onto. Both of them were in custody so it was a simple matter to choose that._

_With the choice made, Melanie merged into one again and opened her eyes._

* * *

"Will someone explain to me how one _kiddy-pool mission_ got so dammed complicated?" Director Nick Fury of SHIELD leaned over his desk, his tone deceptively light despite his annoyance, as he stared down the senior agents before him. "Coulson, you wanted the soft approach, how _did_ that work out for you?"

"Sir," the agent stepped up, "our mission was to bring Ms. Holt into custody with as little fuss as possible, since our intel suggested clairvoyant I thought it best to-"

"I know what you _thought_, I want to know what _happened_."

Anyone else would have gotten nervous at the growl edging into Fury's voice, but Coulson continued on professionally. "Agents Sitwell, Harris and myself were present at the target's address, Sitwell and Harris had the perimeter while I waited for her inside. Agent Romanoff was similarly stationed at Holt's work place ready to shadow her with Agent Garcia. At approximately 2:16pm I found the target retreating through her bedroom window and called it in. However, Team 2 reported no movement and both women appeared to be Ms. Holt."

Natasha Romanoff continued the mission report. "There was no suspicious activity, the target went about her day as normal. However, when Coulson called I moved in to engage, Holt panicked and tried to run." The redhead raised an eyebrow at Coulson and said good-naturedly: "I only needed one shot."

"Well," Coulson shot back with equal heat (which was little), "my target was running down fire escapes and across rooftops; shooting someone in a clinic hallway doesn't carry the same risks."

"Moving on." Fury reminded them.

"Holt has training," Coulson continued, "although I doubt it's professional, certainly there was no mention of it in her file." The crease of his brow promised retribution on whomever had dropped the ball on that one. "We were aware she was athletic, but she also knew the best routes over the rooftops and the buildings that she could and couldn't climb- that takes practice. I would put my money on a parkour or free-running background. Also a healthy dose of paranoia." To a SHIELD agent of Coulson's calibre, there were few levels of paranoia beyond 'healthy'.

"She confessed a familiarity with the specific route she used," Agent Maria Hill interjected, "she said the car park was one of her favourite places when she was 'home from college' and deliberately employed a route which was dangerous to pursue her on. As stated, we don't have much intel' from that time period."

"Something that will be rectified." Fury did growl this time, as annoyed as everyone else present that the intelligence report had been so woefully incomplete.

Clint Barton spoke up for the first time, "is there any mention of martial arts training?" He shrugged, "I was called late to the party so I didn't have time to read the file, but she was pretty decent for someone drugged up to the gills."

"She registered for women's self-defence classes in college... Didn't show up to half of them." Hill poured through a copy of the file which had _appeared_ as comprehensively invasive as SHIELD files were wont to be. "No military history or training of any kind either, she's a physiotherapist and part-time yoga instructor, at least on paper. Her record is clean except for the phone calls and they only date back three months. Could be she was using a series of burner phones though, there have been other unaccounted for calls, some of them might be Holt."

"Right," Fury felt like he was herding cats rather than receiving a report from four of his best, it was a pity Sitwell was dealing with the newbies, Sitwell didn't go off on tangents. "So you lost her on the rooftops and..."

"I decided to call in Agent Barton," Coulson picked up the thread, "it would have taken too long to get clearance for a helicopter and by that time Holt would have been in the wind. Agent Romanoff was also taking... the other Ms. Holt back to base. We would have pinged the call she made to her double but she hung up before we could approximate her location, there is also no GPS tracking on that model of cellphone."

"Thankfully," Barton interjected, "I was in the neighbourhood, with the general location it wasn't too hard to spot her topside, she was on the phone then so it must have been..."

Romanoff rattled off the time to the minute.

"Yeah. She was crouched and far from any ledges so I figured then was the best time to take the shot. She kept turning her head and covering her mouth, but I did manage to read her lips for part of the conversation." He recited from memory without inflection: "Charles. I'm being chased- there was a suit waiting... tailing me. They have my... and I can't... another two hours... Please, please tell me that Kurt... out of here."

"'Charles' and 'Kurt'," Hill met Fury's gaze, "I don't think that's a coincidence."

"No, it's not." Fury agreed. "I thought Holt only had ties to Lensherr- what is the point of running a goddamn spy agency is no one tells me anything!"

"Sir?" Barton rubbed the bridge of his nose where he now had a bandage applied to help keep the airways open. "We've been looking at this like Holt is a clairvoyant mutant with a secondary clone mutation. What if, instead, we're looking at a time traveller?"

Fury raised a sceptical eyebrow, "and what makes you think Holt is one?"

"Well," Barton ticked off on his fingers, "there's the numbered phones- who does that? Especially since numbers one and two are identical to their numbered counterpart."

"Which could be a system in place for a clone to contact the original body," Romanoff interjected, "it is clear that the bodies are autonomous and have little or no psychic link with one another."

"But don't you think it's weird that Holt knew that Phil was in her home, but not that Sitwell and Harris were watching the building? And the Holt you took down was pretty shocked, wasn't she? Doesn't strike me as clairvoyant."

The agents reviewed that line of thought, each of them trying to wrap their head around the existence of time travel, never mind someone born from the human gene-pool who was capable of the feat _naturally_.

"Precognition?" Coulson pondered aloud, latching onto a less fantastical explanation. "It would explain her blind spots, since precogs only see single strand events of what may happen."

"Is that the one where touching specific objects induces visions?" Barton asked, exhausted from a back-to-back mission stint but still trying to keep up.

Coulson shook his head. "No, you're thinking of psychometry."

"What I want to know," Romanoff interjected, "is how a secondary bilocation mutation went unnoticed. And can we rule out a multilocation mutation? It is a power that has pinged recently-"

The sound of Fury's phone vibrating broke the silence. "What?" He barked.

"_Sir, the patient has vanished. The cameras register her there one second and gone the next, the cuffs are still locked."_

Fury went very still, gripping the phone so tightly the casing creaked. "What about the other one?"

* * *

Melanie opened her eyes and took stock of her surroundings. As always after a merge it was a strange sensation to wake up as only one person but she pushed past the dysphoria.

She was in a cell. Oh it was a very nice cell, it was clean if somewhat small and was painted a soothing shade of sky blue... but it was still a cell. Further examination showed that the bed was sturdy and bolted to the floor, as was the only chair in the room and the small table in front of it. There was no knob or handle on the door opposite her.

Melanie pushed back the sheets and noted that she was still modestly attired in her own clothes, although someone had removed her socks and shoes and they were nowhere to be seen. Bare feet to keep her from running. She ran a hand over the crown of her head but no one had shaved her hair. Yet. Maybe they would interrogate her before they started the invasive medical procedures.

Hair was dead cells so she wouldn't have noticed, but Melanie had felt the pierce of a needle in both her forms while in the void, had known the cause even if she did not ponder the ramifications then.

She ran a few checks on herself. Vision was okay, she did not feel euphoric nor did she have a desire to spill all her secrets. Ergo, the suits had probably taken blood rather than inject her with anything. Taking blood was bad enough though, there was all sorts of things you could tell from someone's blood. Hers was type O Negative with an active X-gene and now that they had taken it, her DNA would be on file forever. It was like a leash around her neck, woven with genetic code.

Further study revealed that her fingernails were suspiciously clean for someone who had scrambled over Manhattan rooftops, that meant they had taken her fingerprints too. Melanie wasn't sure if they were ensuring her recapture in the event of an escape, or just trying to possess parts of her to better understand the whole. She had gone twenty-five years without once giving up her prints, so the realisation that someone had just taken them rankled her.

There were cameras in every corner of the room and a speaker over the handle-less door. Melanie was willing to bet that the bathroom would have no chemicals, sharp (or potentially sharp) objects and absolutely nothing to hang herself from. It seemed to be a running theme.

Perhaps she could drown herself in the sink, if there weren't cameras in the bathroom too.

Escape attempts first, Melanie reminded herself, it was not hopeless. Not until she tried every alternative.

_I will not break. Not forever. If I make a mistake I'll just go back and fix it. They _won't_ get anything out of me that they can keep._

* * *

"She woke up within a minute of the other Melanie Holt disappearing." Agent Harris said from his seat at the surveillance desk, trying not to hunch his shoulders as Fury leaned in over him to get a better look at the monitor.

The woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the far right camera with a mulish expression. After a moment she got up and surveyed the bathroom (which had two cameras, they were simply better hidden than the others). Holt searched for surveillance, not even coming close to where the cameras were hidden, then tested the mirror (which was plastic). She scowled at the sink, which was shallow and plug-less and then the shower cubicle, the screen doors were made out of frosted safety glass (and marked with a sticker stating such, to put off all but the most industrious of inmates).

Holt returned to the main room, fixed the sheets and assumed lotus position atop of them. She seemed prepared to wait but Fury was sure her tune would change if given a few hours to sweat.

"Where are we on getting a complete file?"

"We are compiling a detailed electronic profile now sir, Agents are also speaking to known civilian associates." Sitwell replied. "Information is coming in slowly but surely. Do you want me to send more people out?"

"No, we can't pull from other projects."

"Well," Harris attempted humour, "at least there are no gamma monsters or flying robotic suits this time, right sir?" Fury just stared at the man until he flushed and looked down at the console. "Um, right, I'll just, er, go get one of the female agents to take over monitor duty now that she's woken up, shall I?"

"You do that."

Harris scurried out of the room. Sitwell waited until he was gone before snorting in laughter. "Newbies."

"They're like ducklings." Fury grunted.

"Should we send in Romanoff?" Sitwell gestured at the screen where Holt continued to stare directly at the camera,

Fury considered for a long moment, rejecting a multitude of other strategies before replying. "Maybe later. I want to see if this Holt recognises someone the other one met."

* * *

Three hours and seventeen minutes after Melanie awoke, the door opened.

_Hello, Creeper_.

The man was dressed more casually now, he had discarded his suit jacket and there was no sign of a gun holster (_except_, Melanie reminded herself _they make ankle holsters_). He was carrying a tray of food in one hand and a glass of water in another. Even from here, Melanie could see that the cup was just clear plastic, cutlery a similar material, the tray too flimsy to bludgeon someone with.

She didn't move a muscle, even though she hadn't eaten since noon and that was roughly nine to eleven hours ago, depending on your perspective. Her throat was parched and there was an after taste, which she assumed was due to the drugs the redhead had knocked this body out with earlier. She hoped that was all it was at least.

"Why am I here?" Melanie lost no time in questioning him.

Creeper put the tray on the table and handed her the plastic cup. "You really should drink something, hydration is important."

Melanie took the cup but didn't drink. "Answer my questions first. Why am I here and what do you intend to do with me?"

The man quirked a brow, his features crafted into an expression that was probably supposed to look approachable and put her at ease. "Why don't you answer one of mine first: Do you recognise me?"

Melanie faltered for a moment, didn't they already know she received all her scattered memories upon merging? _No, wait, if they didn't know I Jumped in the first place... do they actually believe the cover story Charles and Erik spread?_ It seemed that a moment of hesitation was all Creeper needed, because he smiled and leaned against the edge of the table, quietly self assured while still maintaining open body language. "To answer your first question, we brought you in to talk about Erik Lensherr and your involvement with his organisation, the Brotherhood of Mutants."

"Erik?" Melanie blinked, "this is about _Erik_?" Not mutants (and oh, she did _hate_ that word) as a whole, not her powers specifically, just the _Brotherhood_. Of which she had little involvement. "I'm not a part of the Brotherhood, I never have been."

"You have been making semi-regular calls to Lensherr for the last three months." Creeper pointed out. "Or is it more? How long have you been in contact with him?"

This conversation was far too one-sided. "I'll answer a question if you answer one of mine."

"You are not in a position to be making demands, Ms. Holt."

"What's your name?" Melanie pressed, knowing that he would respond to anything more loaded right off the bat.

Creeper paused for a moment before answering. "Agent Phil Coulson."

Ah, so he did answer, she wasn't sure if he would. If that was his real name, he must be convinced that she wasn't going to get out of here alive. Kidnappers who showed their faces were dangerous, but worse were those who showed their faces _and_ were willing to spill personal details to their captives. Melanie tried to retain a blank expression, in preparation for the next round.

_I think I prefer 'Creeper' anyway. _"I've been in contact with Erik since I was seventeen, I've known of him for a little longer than that." Melanie stretched out her legs which had been starting to cramp no matter how familiar this position was to her. "What is the name of your organisation?"

"The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." Coulson rattled off with an easy rhythm.

"That's quite a mouthful. S...H...I...E...L...D, 'SHIELD'. Clever, it almost sounds comforting."

Melanie smelled the water before taking a small sip. Considering that most of the date-rape drugs on the streets were undetectable until their effects kicked in, Melanie doubted that as well-funded an organisation as this wouldn't be able to put something just as nasty and innocuous in a glass of water. She drank another mouthful; drugs would effect her body, not her transcendental mind, when she Jumped back after this conversation there would be no lingering effects. It would also be good to know for future reference if the water was drugged, so she could limit her consumption, this body was still going to be thirsty in the past.

Creeper, or 'Coulson' if he wasn't lying, continued his own line of questioning. "How long have you known Charles Xavier?"

_Well, I can safely assume they have my phone records. I really should have switched out my cells more often. _"Since I was fourteen."

"He contacted you?"

"That's two questions, _Phil._"

He paused before responding, his tone contrite. "My apologies. Please, ask away."

Melanie pondered whether she should ask him about his co-workers, the redhead who had dropped Melanie in the clinic, or the archer who had fought her on the roof. She discarded the idea, because he didn't seem as likely to talk about other people as he was himself. "How long was I out for?"

"A little over two and a half hours." Well, that was _one_ thing he hadn't lied about, maybe 'Phil Coulson' was his real name after all, SHIELD's acronym was a little too elaborate to be off the top of his head so if that was a lie then it was a well-established one. "Did Xavier contact you initially?"

"Yes, he did, I had no idea he existed before then. Were the phone calls the only reason you pursued me?"

"You weren't on our radar before then." _And after you saw what I could do? I'll never be off it now, will I? _"Why did you run?"

"Because I don't trust people -organisations- like you."

"Melanie-" He stopped short at the glare she sent him. "Ms. Holt, both you and your... double ran before we could properly state our intentions." It wasn't a question but he was fishing for an answer.

Melanie didn't give him anything. "Why were there so many people following me?" If it was, as Coulson said, a routine questioning, why had there been so many operatives at the car park, just minutes after she had given Coulson the slip? Either there had been people waiting in the wings the whole time that Melanie hadn't seen, or these people had a base of operations in New York. If that was the case, then escape might not be as impossible as she feared, at least Melanie would know the area if she succeeded in getting out of the building.

"You were a low risk case," Coulson answered, "a mutant with a non-offensive ability to be brought in for questioning." He eyed her carefully for a reaction but other than distaste at the word 'mutant', Melanie didn't throw him any bones. "We introduce new field operatives to missions like this, they are accompanied by more experienced agents who act as handlers and delegate simple objectives to them throughout the mission. As the newbies don't usually get their feet wet on these starter-assignments we call them 'kiddy-pool missions'."

"So... most of the people I saw today were new recruits, but I got taken down by the handlers?"

"Yes, there were four senior operatives assigned to your case and they each had a junior shadow. That number is a little excessive for a routine op' but you may have had a secondary mutation we were previously unaware of." The slight crinkle on the brow told her that they were unsure about her only mutation as it was. "I believe you owe me two questions, Ms. Holt."

Melanie pressed down on her anger, reminding herself that this Q&A session would be erased as soon as the agent left. Whatever edge he gained now didn't matter. She wouldn't. Let. It. Matter.

Part of her was resigned, wondering if all the plans in her head would ever come to anything and if it would be simpler to just cooperate fully. She was choking down the child inside of her, who wanted to crawl under the covers and cry, who wanted to throw herself at this man's mercy and hope that he and his superiors were lenient, that they would have some use for her after they extracted whatever information they needed and none of those uses would involve pain, death, or making her less than human.

(She was human, being a mutant didn't change that. It could never change that.)

Most of her was furious, at her captors and herself for being caught in the first place (_so many mistakes! Should have called myself at the clinic immediately and told me to run, should have gotten out the country even if I had to swim the Atlantic..._). Melanie hadn't felt so angry in over six years, hadn't wanted to _hurt_ as much as run and hide since she was in the middle of The Raid. Three hours and seventeen minutes of meditation and on-and-off glaring at those stupid cameras hadn't helped pull herself together. She wanted to shout and cry and run and hide and fight and beg and defy and it felt like she was too small to hold all those emotions inside of her.

Melanie really wanted to have one of those her heart-to-heart talks with herself. Sometimes just the process of talking through her problems really helped, especially if the two of her took opposing sides or focused on different points of the discussion. Sometimes she just needed a hug from someone who wouldn't let go, wouldn't ask what was wrong, someone who understood. When she woke up after The Raid, Melanie sent herself back just so that one version of her wouldn't remember waking up alone.

"Ms. Holt?" Melanie realised that she had phased out, not for long but long enough. Thirty-two seconds. Coulson was staring at her with his patented creeper expression- lying body language, face, eyes- lies, all of them. "Did you hear what I said?"

"No." Melanie suddenly felt very tired and obstinate. It had been a long night previously and a few hours of drugged sleep was not sufficient rest to replenish her energy levels. What would Coulson do? Would that façade crack and fall away? Would she see the true colours of the organisation who claimed to protect?

'SHIELD' was not a protector at all but a knife in the dark. Silenced media and whispers in corners. Mutants aren't real, go back about your business, we'll take care of the monsters under the bed. Hollow eyes and walking corpses, too hurt to feel any more. When the gas came they had breathed in deep, turned their faces towards the heat as the bombs went off...

There were tears running down Melanie's face and although she tilted her face back they would not stop. She wiped them away almost absently and waited for them to end. Numb. No more fits of spontaneous sobs or nightmares that woke her screaming (fewer every year at least), no counselling sessions with her mom (dead, _oh mom I miss you_) or Jean (who didn't deserve to be reminded, _thank you for trying_). Melanie was okay now. She had moved on, done everything she could to heal.

Coulson stood up but by that time, Melanie had already dropped the cup and pulled her knees up to hide her face. She tensed as she felt his body heat close, but he did not touch, just stood there.

"Get some rest, we can continue this in the morning."

The whole conversation had taken less than five minutes. Melanie cried for six before moving to the bathroom, she washed her face for two and almost threw up for another three. She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the temperature to a cool cascade and tilting her face into the spray. After twenty-one minutes she had regained her centre (maybe she had cried a little more, who could tell) and was breathing normally, albeit through a stuffy nose.

She Jumped her mind back into her forty minutes younger body and waited the three-and-small-change for the door to open. When Agent Phil Coulson came in with a tray and glass of water, Melanie's face was perfectly blank, her spine straight, legs twisted into lotus form.

"I have nothing to say to you." She said evenly before he could speak.

He coaxed and cajoled, make subtle threats and oblique promises, but garnered no reaction. As before, he offered her water but Melanie kept her hands on her knees until he was forced to put it on the table. No matter what he did, Melanie concentrated on her breathing, the contrast between the blue walls and white door and the dancing dust motes that caught the light overhead. Even when Coulson entered her personal bubble, met her eyes in uncomfortable closeness, he did not raise his voice or hand to her, did not summon guards to beat her or doctors to dissect her.

"Ms. Holt, I cannot help you if you refuse to cooperate."

"I have nothing to say to you." Melanie repeated, tonelessly.

Coulson straightened up and it was at that moment that Melanie was sure that he would drop the mask; he only sighed disappointedly, as if dealing with an unruly teenager instead of an 'inhuman' prisoner.

"Get some rest, we can continue this in the morning."

Melanie blinked, fighting to keep all expression off her face, her teeth pressed together so she didn't speak. _You're kidding, right?_

"Good night, Ms. Holt." Coulson approached the door, waving at one of the cameras until the door clicked open.

The man who opened the door wore a form-fitting navy jumpsuit and had a gun strapped to his thigh. She could see another set of military boots peeking out even from her seat on the bed.

So, to sum up her circumstances... no means of opening the door from her side, cameras to track her every movement and no helpful blind spots (so far Melanie had identified three: under the bed, most of the ceiling and maybe the bathroom) and at least two guys on the outside, god knows how many more in the corridor alone, the whole complex.

Melanie waited until the door closed behind him before she stretched her legs (again) and approach the table. The food was all but cold now, an unidentifiable bean chilli concoction, salad, a bread roll and condiments. Melanie poked the chilli apart looking for semi-dissolved capsules or compounds, but but even without finding any she didn't trust it. She spread some margarine on the innocuous enough looking roll and had a salad sandwich (after carefully inspecting every bit of lettuce, tomato and cucumber), drinking only half the water because she hadn't stuck around in the past long enough to gage if it was drugged or not.

She found unisex pyjamas under her pillow but didn't think twice before rejecting them. Clothes were a symbol of self; Melanie was not willing to give up her own.

_They will try to break me down and build me up, remember mom's paper on military training methods? It'll be worse here than any of her case studies but they'll try to play nice first. I know what Stockholm Syndrome is, I know how to stay me, how to resist._

It was the other forms of interrogation that terrified her.

Melanie was still trying to figure out what their game was, what they expected her to know, how valuable an asset they deemed her, but that was stupid- the only thing she should concern herself with was giving these people as little as possible, about her abilities, her connections, her _people_.

Still, it niggled her, why was Erik so important? Was he at all? Perhaps SHIELD just took an opportunity offered to them when they snatched her. If not, was it Erik himself or his following that they wanted? Erik had done a lot in the name of mutant (_hate that name_) rights- as much as he could do while the majority of the world thought they were just urban legends or failed science experiments.

Perhaps at one time, Erik had been ready for all-out war with the mundane population but he was a father now, a leader, his anti-human (not that mutants _weren't_) feelings were grumbled musings of 'what if' rather than any concentrated desire to dominate. He helped fewer mutants than Charles, was more picky about where he spread his resources or whom he recruited, but Charles was hardly an epitome of virtue either, they were just... human. Rancour and optimism turned to bitterness and weariness in their twilight years.

Melanie would have continued to pass on news from the future to them both, for as long as she able, if it meant that a few mutants escaped government scrutiny. Natural disasters hitting out of the blue, people emerging from pileups or avalanches unscathed, 'stunts' and 'film shoots' that involved someone's appearance flickering then becoming something else entirely...

Sometime Melanie wished she _was_ psychic, that she could see how choices would play out years down the line. She wished that she could travel further back, that she could travel to the future _at all_. If she could then maybe she would know which side of the fence to set up camp. On one hand, anonymity saved them from public opinion- from the inevitable outcry, forced registration and worse (humanity did not have a good track record with people who are different). On the other hand, hiding the existence of the X-gene and those that carried it from the public sphere opened Melanie and others of her kind to governments abusing their classified information. Sure, they might hush up the knowledge of mutants before it has a chance to spread, discredit or silence those who tried to publicise their findings, but regimes the world over did not do so for the sake of their mutant citizens. They did it so that they could do what they wanted to those citizens without scrutiny.

While mutants hid, they were hunted like animals by a few. If they were known by the whole, would they be protected in the public eye, or they just have more people to hide from?

Whichever future came to pass, Melanie was sure that her people would get the short end of the stick.

* * *

Nick Fury was not pleased that their new detainee was giving them the silent treatment, but it was hardly the end of the world. "What have you got for me?"

The group of agents looked up from their work as Fury strode in, but Maria Hill waved them back to their tasks as she took over the report. "We are combing through a number of letters recovered from Holt's residence and we have her computer. The techs are also working on recovering her files and emails, the login encryption is surprisingly sophisticated but we are making progress."

Fury nodded. "Tell me about the letters."

"Both Holt and her correspondent use code names for everyone they talk about, including themselves. Holt has a P.O. Box in her name, presumably for receiving these."

"We have an alert on it?"

"Of course, sir." Hill directed Fury's attention to one of the letters on the table, on which there were perhaps eighty or ninety of the hand-written notes. The script of this one was almost childish, the letters written in a shaking hand, but the language used was not consistent with someone that young.

_4th of March, 2007._

_Dear Gemini,_

_Thank you for the advice you gave me in your previous letter, it really helped. I am slowly becoming more competent in detail-orientated tasks, yesterday I braided my niece's hair! True, it was not as neat as when Mermaid does it but Little-Fish loved her pigtails and kept them in until bedtime. I have also ventured into town four times in the past month with Blockhead and only had minor panic attacks. I feel on top of the world._

_Walks along the shore with Pluto are keeping me grounded, he has such a simple love for me and his size keeps most people from approaching. He adores Little-Fish and will habitability force Blockhead from his spot on the couch, I think he does it just to make me laugh. _

_How are you getting on with Fire-Angel? I'm sorry to hear you are growing apart, have you tried talking to him about, well, you? I'm not telling you to spill all your secrets to him, but you compartmentalise yourself far too much. (Ask Law to talk to you about it, I know she'll agree with me.) You can show the poor boy more than one facet of yourself without getting kicked out the proverbial closet, or make him run screaming for the hills. Don't be afraid to tell him how you feel- even if that feeling is negative._

_Well, I've had my say, I'll stop nagging you now. Tell Bard that I loved his maple and pecan muffin recipe (and so did Little-Fish, she helped me bake and eat them!), I hope you got on well with the lemon drizzle torte, it's a family favourite in our house._

_I wish you all the luck with your course work, please try to have some non-exercise related fun in your downtime (your stories are exhausting!),_

_All my love,_

_Seraphina._

"Our analysts say that the handwriting shows signs consistent with nerve damage, 'Seraphina' is also the name of a saint associated with the disabled." Hill picked up another letter, this one dated to just last month, and compared them- the strokes trembled upon the page but they were not the shaking mess they were in some of the older letters. "The earliest is dated July 2005, naturally we are compiling a profile now. It's a pity Holt didn't keep the envelopes or we wouldn't have to wait until the next letter came through for a post-mark."

"Is there a schedule to these?" Fury scanned some of the other messages.

"Some, sir. At least once a month in the past few years, as many as once a week in the beginning." Hill paused. "Sir, we can't be sure until we have more information, but it is possible that Holt is a survivor of some kind. We have reason to believe that Seraphina is a victim of torture, she refers to a 'Hell' and an incident called 'The Raid', she trusts Holt implicitly."

"Your impression, Maria?"

"I... the early letters indicate that they did not know each other before Seraphina's trauma. I would be willing to bet that either Holt helped her escape or she was a prisoner alongside her."

"Construct a time line, add to what we know. Find out if Holt ever disappeared off the radar." Fury rubbed the skin around his eye patch. "Get a profiler to watch the monitors on top of the regular shifts. What's the Lensherr situation?"

"Surprisingly quiet, it seems that he is still in contact with Xavier."

"I'm sure one of them will be in touch at some point, let's hope it's not the one with the bucket on his head." Hill nodded in agreement, standing at parade rest.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"No, it never is. Get some sleep now though, I've got a feeling it's going to be a real shit storm tomorrow."

* * *

A.N:

Mythology: The Greek mythological reference in this chapter is one of the five rivers in the underworld, Acheron, which gives birth to the rivers Cocytus and Styx. It is the principle river of Tartarus and some believe it symbolises pain, others healing and the cleansing of sins. Dante borrowed from Virgil's mythology, making Acheron the river which borders Hell. Upon its banks those who were neutral in life wait for the remaking of the world, unable to cross over in either direction. I chose 'Acheron' because of its relation to crossroads and entrapment, as well as it's dual nature which symbolises Melanie's fears versus the (somewhat) less diabolical reality of SHIELD.

On Designations and Internalised Racism: In this chapter we see several examples of Melanie disliking the word 'mutant' and as far as designations go, it _is_ accurate, even if more suited to sci-fi pulp fiction from the 50s. In this universe, which is **pretty AU for the X-Men side of things** (my way of explaining why mutants are never mentioned in the MCU, and why the X-Men never showed up for the Battle of New York), the only use of the word 'mutant' outside of the in-the-know Mutant Community is B-Rated movies about The Thing From the Deep, etc. While the name is being (re)claimed in mutant circles, much as the word 'queer' has been in real life LGBT settings and academic institutions, Melanie still dislikes the term and wants the Community to think of something else before it goes public. Rejecting the title _after_ 'mutant' is the official designation has rather different connotations (thanks, Alex Summers) but that's still not to say that Melanie hates herself for being born different. She _is_ one of the many mutants who identifies as human however, rather than an entirely separate species. Like every ethnic, religious or political group larger than one person, there are bound to be disagreements in-house.

Melanie's Powers: **A condensed version of the abilities revealed thus far, including some specifics not yet revealed in-fic, since some people are still confused.**

- Can 'Jump' back a specified period of time, either physically or mentally. The limit is currently a little over three hours but it does expand over time, more so through regular use. Melanie CANNOT overlap more than once. She also cannot go back further than the point of a last Jump, even if she has a 'window'. For example: if Melanie can Jump back 3 hours but chooses to only go back 1 hour, then those 2 hours would be lost to her, even if there is no potential overlap.

- Has an inhuman sense of time and is intimately aware of it, even when drugged or unconscious.

- Receives all versions of memories after a merge, which happens at the start of a mental Jump and the end of a physical one.

"But What's Going on, Exactly?" If anything is confusing you, I can assure you **it will be explained in the text.** If you reread the story and still don't know what something means then it is intentional and will be explained later/is a future plot point. I don't want to condescend to anyone, info dump or give everything away too quickly. Suspense is awesome~

**If you liked this chapter then please feel free to leave a review! **I won't be updating any stories for a while now, so I'm really glad I managed to get this done before I got swamped. Expect me back... February? Maybe? It all depends on time constraints and how much inspiration I have.


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